


Since We've No Place to Go

by blackstoneirregular (candiedrobot)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Satinalia, Snowed In, matchmaking Hawke, pining Anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedrobot/pseuds/blackstoneirregular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris blinked at him and waved him away with one naked hand, lyrium tattoos catching the light of the fire.  “Whatever you want.”</p>
<p>“Whatever I want,” Anders murmured entirely to himself as he lit a candle and fumbled his way into the kitchen.  He was sure Fenris didn't truly mean that.  What he wanted, after all, was something he was sure he couldn't have, even on Satinalia, the day of gifts.</p>
<p>-or-</p>
<p>Fenris and Anders get snowed in on a fake mission on the eve of Satinalia and Anders tries to avoid his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since We've No Place to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution for the Fenders Family Secret Santa! This is for tumblr user dragonphage, who asked for angst and pining. This got a little (a lot) fluffy by the end, but I hope you like it~!

The storm hit on the eve of Satinalia. Snow pushed in from the West, biting winds fierce and bowing over the evergreens on Sundermount, where Anders found himself stuck at least until the storm subsided. The air outside was heavy, visibility low. The wind howled as it pushed against the walls of Hawke's little cabin and the windows creaked under the onslaught.

Anders didn't mind the snow. It was something he had missed in the Circle. While it was true that Lake Calenhad looked pretty all frozen over, it didn't compare to the white caps of the mountains in the Anderfells where he had grown up, and the solid sheet over the depths of that Maker-forsaken lake only ever made him want to run. There was something to be said about snow-covered hills, especially on the eve of Satinalia, a day that he could still somewhat remember spending with his family, once upon a time.

He remembered hot spiced cider and spiked eggnog that his father would slip him sips of with a wink and a conspiratorial finger to his lips. He remembered baking cookies with his mother, and sitting in front of the fire while the snow fell slowly outside their window.

He could remember Satinalias spent in the Circle too, singing Chantry Hymns to Andraste with the other circle mages and exchanging gifts of knitted socks and hand carved toys; he remembered stolen kisses under the mistletoe when the Templars' backs were turned.

He couldn't remember a Satinalia quite like this one, however, stuck in a look-out cabin on Sundermount in a blizzard with an elf that hated him almost as much as he hated the snow.

Fenris was brooding, as usual, leaning against the wall and watching the sheets of white blowing in. It was already piled up against the door and the sides of the little wood house, effectively trapping them there, together, the two members of Hawke's crew most likely to get into an actual, physical fight over... well, nearly anything. Anders idly cursed Hawke. He also wondered if she had stuck the two of them on this scouting mission together on purpose.

He had mentioned, in a drunken fit of honesty one night at the rogue's fancy Hightown mansion, while they sat giggling over silly things like Sebastian's crotch effigy to Andraste, or Varric's strangely inviting chest hair, that he had feelings for Fenris. Marian hadn't been able to look at him without winking ever since. She had made subtle moves to include them both in missions and jobs more often, even after he pulled her aside one day in his clinic and told her to stop. “It's nothing and I should never have told you about it,” he had hissed into her ear, pulling her as far away from the elf hovering in the doorway waiting for them to leave. “He'll never return my feelings, and I'm a fool for even having them still.

She claimed to have no idea what he was talking about, but Anders would have truly been a fool to miss the way her eyes twinkled mischievously as she dragged him out and into another excuse for her to expand her collection of trousers and moth-eaten scarves.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this storm and their current situation in its entirety was her work.

Still, he couldn't resist the opportunity to appreciate the way Fenris looked with the fury of winter framing him at his side, the flickering orange glow of the hearth-fire illuminating him from the other. His eyebrows were furrowed, his arms crossed as he watched the snow fall. He really was breathtaking, even with agitation pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Anders tore his eyes away and fought down the wave of melancholy that rose in him at the thought that any chance he might have with the elf lay in pieces back in Kirkwall, in the hands of a prodigal daughter that held them together like glue when all other elements suggested they did not fit. They were too broken in too different of ways, two pieces of two different puzzles that she kept trying to make into one picture.

He turned back to the fire, tending it and humming in the back of his throat, an old Satinalia tune the Circle kids would rewrite with dirty lyrics and giggle about when they were alone. He wished he'd had the foresight to pack the goods to make stew. Perhaps he'd get up and rummage through the pantry soon. The house was not often used, even though it belonged to Hawke, but perhaps there were some non-perishable foods stashed away that he could take advantage of.

He leaned back in his chair and watched the fire. “ _I need you Anders,”_ he whined aloud, mimicking a voice with a higher pitch, “ _I need you Fenris. Just go keep watch over the pass. You can use the cabin as a basecamp. It won't storm for another week I promise, you'll be home before Satinalia I swear. Blah blah blah I'm Hawke and I know you'll do whatever I say because I have mastered the art of needy doe eyes and nobody ever questions me. If you need me I'll just be here, safe and warm in my mansion banging my Dalish girlfriend and my pirate lover. Oh and do try not to kill each other!”_

Fenris snorted. It might have been a laugh but Anders wasn't sure. It was certainly more than he'd gotten out of him all day, at any rate.

He glanced over his shoulder to find the elf still studying the growing dark outside the window. “You know, I'm starting to think she wanted us to get stuck here,” he mused aloud. “She only has room for one of us in her life and she wanted us to fight to the death for the spot. I'm terribly sorry Fenris, but I have to warn you I know how to kill a man with nothing but a ladle and an old shoe.” He waved the wooden ladle hanging by the fireplace threateningly.

At that, Fenris finally looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. “And here I told myself I'd never fight to the death for a boon again. I suppose I could make an exception, for you.”

Anders gaped at him. _Dammit, why did he always put Anders in such an awkward position when he had only meant to make a joke?_ He narrowed his eyes at the elf and he could have sworn he saw a tiny smirk form on his face, half a thought of smug victory. Anders huffed. “Dark,” he said. “Thanks for the pleasant conversation.”

“Anytime,” Fenris replied easily.

“You know, you might as well take that armour off,” he mused, glancing over the hard edges of Fenris' breastplate and gauntlets. The fool was snowed in, still armed to the teeth, as if darkspawn were going to burst through the door at any moment. Of course, that thought quickly devolved into images of genlocks wearing masks and fuzzy hats, delivering sacks full of presents, and Anders had to fight off the urge to giggle. Fenris would probably think he'd finally lost it.

The elf glanced at him curiously. “Why?” Suspicion laced his voice and Anders rolled his eyes.

“We're not going anywhere any time soon and I highly doubt we're going to get any visitors in this storm.” He did giggle finally, a hurlock alpha singing carols in his head. Fenris raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. It was the same look he was used to getting whenever he talked about Justice. He cleared his throat but couldn't quite manage to wipe the smile off his face. “You don't want to know,” he explained.

“I'm sure I don't.” But Fenris started undoing the straps to his armour anyway, shoving himself off from the wall and stepping over to join Anders in front of the fire. He lay his breastplate against the mantle and started on his gauntlets.

Anders fidgeted. Fenris was lean under his armour, all muscle and lithe, gentle curves. His tunic accentuated the slightest curve of his pectorals, and his waist dipped in just a bit, just enough to make Anders imagine resting his hand there as he leaned in for a kiss. He could imagine those strong hands gripping his arms, lips soft and warm.

A single gauntlet fell to the floor, Fenris cursing low at having dropped it, and Anders jumped at the sound it made, flushing pink over his pale cheeks. “I ah, I'm going to go scope out the kitchen,” he stammered weakly. “Are you thirsty? Hawke has to have some liquor stashed away in here somewhere, I'm sure.”

Fenris blinked at him and waved him away with one naked hand, lyrium tattoos catching the light of the fire. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want,” Anders murmured entirely to himself as he lit a candle and fumbled his way into the kitchen. He was sure Fenris didn't truly mean that. What he wanted, after all, was something he was sure he couldn't have, even on Satinalia, the day of gifts.

He rummaged through the first cabinet he came across and started at what he found.

Impossible.

There was the liquor he had been looking for, but next to it, in a basket covered with a cloth he set aside with disbelief, was an assortment of ripe, juicy apples, and a tied bundle of fragrant spices that made his mouth water.

“Hawke left us a present,” he called into the other room, laughing in astonishment and scooping all of the goodies into a heavy cauldron. He hoisted it up and huffed from the exertion, carrying it into the den with a smile.

“What did you find?” Fenris asked, peering over the edge.

Anders laid it all out and pushed the cauldron into the elf's arms. “Go fill this with water and I'll show you.”

Fenris made an annoyed sound but took the pot easily, as if it weighed nothing at all, and made off for the cistern. Anders, in the meantime, pulled a knife out of his bag and started cutting the apples into quarters, still grinning to himself. This was better than he could have hoped for. With this, and the snow outside, perhaps there was still something of Satinalia left to salvage. And he knew Fenris loved apples. He wondered if the former-slave had ever tasted cider.

“Apples?” Sure enough, Fenris' ears perked up as he came back in the room and Anders once again resisted the urge to reach out and rub them. There was something about him that was undeniably cat-like. Hawke had made the comparison once, obviously trying too hard to play matchmaker, but the image had stuck nonetheless. Still, some cats just didn't like people, and Fenris just didn't like him.

“Better than apples,” he replied without glancing up. Just put the water on to boil, if you please.”

Fenris grunted.

“Have you ever had apple cider, Fenris?” He reached over and dumped the apple pieces in, once the elf had secured it over the fire.

“No,” he replied, a little harsh, but Anders let it roll off his back. He started rummaging through the spices and selecting handfuls of allspice, nutmeg, clove and whole sticks of cinnamon, and dropping them in the pot with the apples. “Can't we just eat the apples?” Fenris plopped down in the chair nearest the fire and watched him, crossing his arms critically. “I like apples. I do not know if I like apple cider.”

Anders chuckled, but tossed the elf a whole apple anyway. “You'll like it, trust me. Especially the way I make it. Not that it's easy to screw up apple cider. _Maker,_ I haven't had this stuff in ages. I used to drink it with my family, before the circle. It's sort of a Satinalia tradition.”

Fenris was quiet, except for the crisp crunch of his teeth biting into the skin of the apple. He was watching the fire, but it didn't feel like he was ignoring Anders, so he continued, chattering on while the cider began to warm and cook. “Do you have any Satinalia traditions Fenris? You know, if we weren't snowed in on Sundermount on a bogus lookout mission? Did you have any plans?”

Fenris chewed on his apple, unresponsive for several long moments and Anders was starting to think that perhaps he _was_ ignoring him, when finally Fenris spoke. “I had thought about going to the Chantry to pray tonight.”

Anders blinked, surprised. “I didn't know you were religious, Fenris.”

Fenris shrugged and continued watching the fire.

“What about before,” he continued, barrelling on ahead, “in Tevinter? Did you have any traditions there?”

At that, finally, Fenris did turn to look at him, a patient but irked expression on his face. When he spoke, it was slow, as if he was speaking to a child who didn't understand a particularly easy concept. “You might recall I was a slave, when I resided in Tevinter, Anders.”

Anders scoffed. “Really? I wasn't aware.” _At least Fenris was calling him by name instead of 'Abomination,'_ he noticed. That was always a good sign for the evening's conversation. Still. _He hadn't meant that, dammit._ “So the slaves didn't have any traditions for the Holiday? I mean I get that maybe you didn't have soirées with the Magisters, but nothing? No traditional foods? No elven customs? I find that hard to believe.”

Fenris made a vague noise and tossed his apple core into the fire, where it hissed and popped under the cauldron. Good smells were starting to come from that cauldron, and Anders could see Fenris inhale appreciatively. Maybe that was why he was being so agreeable.

“There were traditions in which the slaves of Tevinter took part, now that you mention it.”

Anders held up his hand to stop him. “If you say _Blood Magic,_ I'm going to scream.”

Fenris looked surprised for a moment, before his lips twitched up at the corners and he _nearly_ smiled. “Dark,” he echoed from earlier, amusement lacing his voice. “But no, I wasn't going to say Blood Magic this time.”

“It's a Satinalia Miracle!”

“Indeed,” Fenris continued, his tone curiously light. _Perhaps apples are the key to unlocking friendly Fenris_? “Most Magisters take a break from Blood Magic and slave sacrifices to get drunk in the streets.”

_Andraste's tits, was Fenris actually making light-hearted conversation with him?_ Anders grinned at the way some of the deepest frown lines seemed to soften on Fenris' face. “So what were you going to say then? If Blood Magic is outlawed, what traditions are observed in its place?”

“Satinalia is a day of role reversal in Tevinter,” Fenris explained. He rubbed his hands together and pulled his chair a little closer to the fire. “It is the single day during the year in which slaves are allowed to dine with their masters, or in some of the more liberal households, their masters actually serve them instead. Everyone wears masks, and sloven drunkenness and free speech by all are celebrated.”

Anders laughed outright at that. “So it sounds like Satinalia in Tevinter is your kind of holiday then. Although I suppose you get drunk and speak your mind every other day of the year, so maybe not.”

Fenris frowned, and some of the lines crept back over his face. Anders backtracked. “So ah, what about that role reversal then? Did Danarius serve you dinner?” He laughed at the image. “I think I'd have paid to see that.”

But Fenris only appeared to withdraw more, turning back to the fire. “No,” he said. He seemed shuttered again, closed off; and Anders missed the openness of before. “Danarius didn't participate in Satinalia festivities, at least not behind closed doors.”

“Oh.”

He wasn't sure what else to say. He had stuck his foot in his mouth yet again, but Fenris wasn't taking it out on him this time. He looked lost, his eyes far away, reliving a past Anders wouldn't wish on anyone, but especially not someone as wonderful as Fenris. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _just._

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. Fenris whipped his head around and fixed him with a fierce glare. He knew he was walking on thin ice, but when were things ever easy between them? Fenris opened his mouth, but Anders spoke first. “Let me serve you.”

“What.”

Anders held up a cup and the ladle he had found in the kitchen. “I know it's just cider, but you can pretend I'm Danarius.” Fenris said nothing, but watched him warily as he ladled the steaming apple cider into the cup and knelt before the elf's chair. He presented the cup demurely and smiled up at him. His heart was beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. He had no idea, really, how Fenris would react to this spur of the moment decision, and he only hoped that it wouldn't lead to Hawke finding his dismembered body in her cabin weeks later.

Fenris regarded him with an unreadable expression for a long moment. Anders wondered if Hawke would have any difficulty finding the Will he had stashed on his desk back at the clinic.

Finally, Fenris huffed out something surprisingly similar to a laugh. “You are completely ridiculous,” he said. He took the cup and Anders felt his shoulders relax. He grinned with conviction and Fenris did that little huffy laugh again before he tilted his head, regarding Anders with a meaningful look. His eyes were gentle for once, and his voice quiet when he spoke. “You are also not Danarius. You're nothing like him.”

It wasn't exactly a compliment, considering most people were better than Danarius by default, but it meant a great deal coming from Fenris, and Anders felt as though his heart was swelling in his chest. “Thanks?” his tone was light, but he knew whatever was transpiring between them was meaningful, and he was grateful for it.

He watched Fenris take a long sip from his cup and felt elated when his eyes lit up and he looked down at Anders with delighted shock. “This is the best thing I have ever tasted,” Fenris stated. Anders laughed. “I'm serious mage, this is delicious. I would almost say this is worth getting snowed in with you.”

Anders snorted. “Happy Satinalia to you too, Fenris.”

“ _Io Satinalia.”_

He blinked. “Come again?”

Fenris handed him the cup and Anders remembered that he had only poured one. He flushed a bit, cheeks heating up as he took it and drank, trying not to think about Fenris' lips on the cup, under his.

“It's Arcanum,” Fenris explained and reached for the cup. Anders resisted the urge to giggle at the way he grasped at the air, like a child begging to be picked up, and handed the cider back to him. Fenris took a long sip and made a small _(sinful)_ noise of contentment into the cup. Anders felt his cheeks get hotter. Fenris licked his lips and handed it back again, Anders' eyes following his tongue and imagining that it must taste sweet by now like the apples, and spicy. “It's what is said in Tevinter, _Io Satinalia.”_

Anders took a drink to hide his flushed cheeks. “You should speak Tevinterian more often, it's sexy,” he said as he handed the cup back and kicked himself mentally, thinking again of his Will and wondering why he couldn't seem to manage to keep his big mouth shut.

Fenris grabbed the cup out of his hands and scowled at him, but instead of retorting, he did something that surprised Anders. He stuck his feet on Anders' chest, nearly bare except for where his leggings became stirrups over his arches. It was an odd, almost playful thing to do. It reminded him of the way his father used to stick his feet in his mother's lap after a hard day of work, and how his mother used to laugh and push him away, calling him a stinky menace. Fenris' feet didn't smell, however, for which Anders was glad. Maybe it was an elf thing. “It's Arcanum you fool, not _Tevinterian,”_ he finally did retort.

Chuckling, he reached his hands up and, instead of pushing Fenris away, he placed his hands instead on his ankles, squeezing lightly and rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles over the hard bone of his shins. Fenris turned red almost instantaneously. From his cheeks to the tips of his ears, he flushed deep and dark, but he didn't move his feet. “Mage...” he said threateningly.

“Hmm?” Anders hummed, amused and content on the surface, but concern stretched underneath, worry that he was severely overstepping, misreading the warmth of the situation and the agreeableness of the elf thus far, pushing where he should be pulling back. Fenris had never been this nice to him for this long and he wanted to test it.

Fenris looked away, at the fire, licked his lips again and looked back down at Anders. “Are we... having a moment?” He sounded unsure. “I don't like it.” And there was that snide tone, creeping back in. He flexed his toes against Anders chest vindictively, but Anders noticed he still wasn't moving his feet.

“Well I do.” He scratched his nails bluntly along the sides of Fenris' shins. He had missed having this kind of gentle, tactile affection with someone and he liked the warmth of Fenris' legs under his palms, the solid pressure of his feet against his chest. In their current position, it was easy to pretend that things were different between them, that Fenris was a lover, and that they were sharing a warm night away from the city on purpose, instead of being stuck in Hawke's lookout house in a blizzard. “This is better than the way things normally are with us,” he said quietly. “This almost makes me feel like you don't hate me.”

He watched the fire flicker against the sides of the cauldron, and listened to the howling gale of the storm outside in the silence that followed. _Io Satinalia indeed,_ he thought dryly. _I'm entirely too sober for this conversation, and I'm the one who bloody started it._

He winced when he felt Fenris slide his legs out of his grip, setting his feet back on the floor on either side of him. “Anders,” he said, his voice low over the ambience of the fire and the snow. Anders swallowed heavily. “ _Anders,”_ he said again. He looked up.

Fenris was watching him with a sombre look in his eyes, almost sad. “Sorry,” Anders huffed automatically.

“Stop,” Fenris said, voice stern. Anders looked away again and Fenris snapped his fingers in his face, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Would you look at me fool mage- _I don't hate you.”_

Anders turned, at that, and stared. Snow white hair like the blizzard outside, dark, warm skin reflecting the light of the fire, broken by the sweeping lines of bright lyrium that made him look ethereal and unreal; but there was a very real openness to his expression, an honesty in his phosphorescent green eyes that had Anders holding his tongue to let him finish.

“I have never hated you, mage,” he continued, “even though you are annoying and make me feel as though I'm speaking to a wall half the time, and to a particularly dense child the rest-”

“Oh thanks,” Anders interjected sourly.

“-But if you would _let me finish,_ I do not think you are a bad person. You are not like Danarius, nor are you like any of the Magisters in Tevinter. You provide for those who have nothing, and you ask for nothing in return. Your convictions are strong, and even if I can't understand them, I know they come from a place of hurt, from watching others hurt and wishing to heal it, just as you heal their bodies. I have always seen a suffering in you that I recognise. Even when I want to strangle you and beat you over the head with your own staff, I see that sameness...”

Anders gaped. “And... what?” he asked incredulously, “ _Abomination_ is just a term of endearment...?”

Fenris scowled at him and crossed his arms, looking adorably sullen. “Perhaps.”

Anders' heart leapt. That was about as close as he was ever going to get with Fenris. In fact, that was more than he could have hoped for. “Can I tell you something then?”

Fenris grunted.

“I've wanted to kiss your stupid face ever since I met you. If you weren't such an ass all the time, I would have tried to do it far sooner.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Why don't you try it now.” He said it like it was a challenge and Anders would have expected no less.

He sat forward on his knees between Fenris' legs and stretched up as Fenris leaned down to meet him, a possessive hand on the side of his face. He balanced himself with a hand on each of the elf's thighs, and as his lips pressed _finally, at last, thank Andraste_ to Fenris', he couldn't help but feel like this was what he was meant for.

When Fenris pulled back, and then kissed him again, brief and warm, lips closing over his own upper lip and lingering, warm breath smelling like cider and brandy against his, Anders smiled. He did taste like spice. He kissed the side of Fenris' mouth, his jaw; he turned into the palm that cradled his cheek and kissed that too. _“_ _Io Satinalia,”_ he breathed against callused, warm skin.

“Happy Satinalia,” Fenris whispered.

The storm raged outside, but they were warm by the fire, finally fitting together like pieces to the same puzzle, and neither one paid the snow any mind, at least not until morning.

 

 

 

 

 

**Kirkwall, The Hanged Man, several days later...**

 

 

Marian Hawke snickered again, poking gleefully at the purple mass of a bruise on Anders' neck. He dropped his cards with an undignified squawk and swatted at her hand, covering his neck with the other. “Stop that,” he complained. “You're a terror, you know that right?”

“I can't help it,” she crooned, “I've never been this happy, probably. Merrill, have I ever been this happy?”

Merrill giggled from across the table. “I don't think she's ever been this happy actually.” Anders groaned. “I'm happy for you too, of course! Happy for both of you! It's so nice to see you finally stopped fighting, we've all been rooting for you!” She sighed dreamily.

He turned to his side and pleaded silently with Fenris to help. Fenris raised a single eyebrow and went back to studying his hand of cards. “I don't know if I'd go so far as to say we've stopped fighting,” he said cooly.

Anders threw his hands up in exasperation.

“You stopped long enough to _do it_ ,” Marian said victoriously, waggling her eyebrows.

“Maybe they found a better way to fight,” Isabela added lasciviously.

Varric sniggered and Aveline did a bang up job, as usual, of ignoring them almost completely.

Anders scowled at Fenris. “Don't help them,” he said. Fenris shrugged.

“Oh come on,” Marian slung an arm around Anders' shoulders. “I bet it was romantic, all snowed in with nowhere to go, a crackling fire- but it wasn't quite enough so you had to huddle together for warmth. Fenris suggesting you take off your clothes, so you could absorb the heat from your bare skin, but you refused, _at first,_ 'No, I'm not that kind of mage!' you cried, afraid that the strong elf warrior would steal your virtue-”

Fenris snorted and Anders looked up at the sound of Varric's quill scribbling furiously as Isabela clapped, delighted.

“Okay, stop right there, it was nothing like that,” he interrupted.

“I'll say,” Fenris added, the smile on his face making him look positively mischevous.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Although,” he began, thinking back, “I do have to thank you for the things in the pantry. We probably would have sat there all night trying to play the longest game of ' _who can make this the most awkward blizzard ever'_ if not for that.”

Marian had the gall to look confused. “What stuff?”

Isabela leaned heavily on the table, hands folded as if in blessing. “Ohh, what did you find in the pantry? Were they naughty? Did you play slave and master? Did someone get tied up??”

Anders flushed, remembering sitting on his knees and serving Fenris cider. “No!” he exclaimed in unison with Fenris' growl. “No,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Thank you, as always Isabela, but no. I meant the apples and brandy, and the basket of spices. So we could make apple cider?”

Marian didn't look any less confused. “I didn't leave you anything. I didn't think about it.” She looked at Merrill and Isabela but they both shrugged or shook their heads. “You found apples in the pantry? Are you sure?”

He stared at her, and then turned to stare at Fenris, who had put his cards down and wore a look of concern. “Fairly sure,” Anders said, “considering I didn't make spiced bloody cider from nothing.”

Fenris frowned. “I don't understand. If you didn't leave the apples, who did?”

There was silence around their table for several long moments, the chatter and noise of the tavern down below drifting up in muffled waves to Varric's room.

“Ooh, ooh,” Merrill said suddenly, “Varric, didn't you tell me that story about the old bearded man who flies around Thedas on a sled led by a team of magical hart and leaves you presents if you've been good? Could it have been him?”

Fenris grunted distastefully and Isabela made a face, but Marian looked awe-struck, as if she'd just heard the best news of her life. Anders remembered leaving his shoes out for presents as a child in the mountains and finding them full of treats and toys in the morning. He turned, alarmed, to Varric.

“Yeah,” the dwarf said, scratching at his chin thoughtfully, “but it's just some fairy tale parents tell their kids in the Anderfells so they'll be good throughout the year. They also tell them a goat demon will pop out of the fade and steal them away if they're bad, and you're all still here, so I really wouldn't dwell on it too much.”

Fenris sneered at the tale. “That's completely absurd. I'm sure someone must have broken in and left some supplies behind. I refuse to believe in flying hart, I cannot handle any more magic in my life than is absolutely necessary.”

He picked his cards back up and the rest of the table grumbled in agreement and began to resume their game of Wicked Grace, Marian pouting in disappointment. “I mean we _have_ seen weirder,” she mumbled defensively as Varric dealt her a new hand.

Anders felt a warm pressure against his leg, the tickle of toes curling against his shin and he turned to find Fenris' eyes on him, a question in them.

Anders smiled reassuringly. “I'm sure that's it,” he said. But as Varric dealt him back in, he remembered a flash of his childhood, of peeking out his bedroom door and seeing a blur of red and white, a plate of cookies half eaten in the morning and hoof prints in the snow. He reached over, under the table and squeezed Fenris' thigh and watched the elf smile at his hand of cards. “Absurd,” he echoed under his breath. He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the Tevinter customs mentioned are actually taken from the Ancient Romans and the holiday "Saturnalia," for which Satinalia is based. Masters really did serve their slaves for a day and everybody got real drunk. Good times.
> 
> Another fun fact: Krampus is totally a Desire Demon.
> 
> Don't go to the Anderfells.


End file.
